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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
203
It
was
at
this
moment
that
Zuleika
opened
her
eyes.
“Where
am
I?”
She
weakly
raised
herself
on
one
elbow;
and
the
suspension
of
the
Duke’s
hatred
would
have
been
repealed
simultaneously
with
that
of
her
consciousness,
had
it
not
already
been
repealed
by
the
analogy.
She
put
a
hand
to
her
face,
then
looked
at
the
wet
palm
wonderingly,
looked
at
the
Duke,
saw
the
water-jug
beside
him.
She,
too,
it
seemed,
had
caught
the
analogy;
for
with
a
wan
smile
she
said
“We
are
quits
now,
John,
aren’t
we?”
Her
poor
little
jest
drew
to
the
Duke’s
face
no
answering
smile,
did
but
make
hotter
the
blush
there.
The
wave
of
her
returning
memory
swept
on--swept
up
to
her
with
a
roar
the
instant
past.
“Oh,”
she
cried,
staggering
to
her
feet,
“the
owls,
the
owls!”
Vengeance
was
his,
and
“Yes,
there,”
he
said,
“is
the
ineluctable
hard
fact
you
wake
to.
The
owls
have
hooted.
The
gods
have
spoken.
This
day
your
wish
is
to
be
fulfilled.”
“The
owls
have
hooted.
The
gods
have
spoken.
This
day--oh,
it
must
not
be,
John!
Heaven
have
mercy
on
me!”
“The
unerring
owls
have
hooted.
The
dispiteous
and
humorous
gods
have
spoken.
Miss
Dobson,
it
has
to
be.
And
let
me
remind
you,”
he
added,
with
a
glance
at
his
watch,
“that
you
ought
not
to
keep
The
MacQuern
waiting
for
luncheon.”
“That
is
unworthy
of
you,”
she
said.
There
was
in
her
eyes
a
look
that
made
the
words
sound
as
if
they
had
been
spoken
by
a
dumb
animal.
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